The more, the merrier.
Not.
Corben urgently scoured the darkness for the dead man’s weapon. He couldn’t find it at first, then spotted it on the far side of the hallway from him, facing the door and anyone coming in. Getting it would be risky. Corben would be completely exposed if he attempted it.
As he mulled whether to go for it, he heard rapid footfalls echoing up the stairwell and knew it would be seconds before he’d again be facing the killers’ two-to-one advantage — with the two sporting automatics, as opposed to his meager kitchen knife. He realized he had to make a move. He bolted from the wall and dived for the gun just as the killer outside kicked the door in. The dead man’s body was blocking the door. The killer outside shoved the door inwards, pushing his friend’s corpse farther back into the room while reaching in and unleashing a barrage of gunfire that exploded all around Corben. Corben’s fingers reached the fallen gun just as several bullets bounced off the floor beside him. He managed to grab it and leapt out of the room, more shots splattering the jambs of the doorway inches from him.
He rushed through the darkened living room and ducked for cover behind Evelyn’s desk as several bullets crunched into its oak carcass. He peered out and unleashed a brief volley of his own, forcing the killer to duck behind the doorway. They were no more than fifteen feet apart. The living room was bathed in darkness, making it hard for either of them to get a clear shot at the other. Corben, at least, had the advantage of knowing the layout of the apartment. It would buy him a few extra seconds, which he needed if he was going to make it back to Mia.
Corben stole a glance at the gun he’d picked up. Even in the bare glimmer of light that was coming through from the edges of the curtains, he could tell that it was a SIG-Sauer, and more specifically a P226. Hardly the sleekest of designs, but a supremely accurate and reliable handgun. Corben processed the choice of weapon: These weren’t standard-issue Makarovs, which were a dime a dozen in the area. These guys — and whoever sent them — had access to, and funding for, some serious steel. He made a quick mental calculation of the shots he had left. Given that its double-column magazine held fifteen rounds, plus one in the chamber if one was really hell-bent on getting the maximum bang for one’s buck, and assuming the magazine was full before the corpse had shot up the door, which was a reasonably safe assumption, Corben guessed he could have maybe a half dozen rounds left.
At best.
He heard some clicks — the killer was trying the light switches, to no avail. The door scraped open and more footsteps entered the apartment. The third killer was here. Corben heard a brief, heated exchange between the two men — getting up to speed and planning their next move, no doubt — and decided to use that momentary distraction. Careful not to waste precious bullets, he loosed a couple of shots and rushed out from behind the desk, scurrying across the darkened room, and landing behind the large sofa that backed up to the balcony. Several muffled shots shattered the side table to his right and obliterated two picture frames that were on it. He didn’t return fire. He waited instead, straining his ears to hear if either of the intruders would step into his killing zone. They were too experienced for that and stayed tucked away behind the wall of the doorway. He could hear one of them reloading. Undeterred, he inched his way farther until he was facing the small hallway that led to the kitchen. He took a couple of deep breaths and sprinted across the open ground to it. Several shots cut through the air around him, but he kept going and ducked behind the wall as more shots bit into it. He returned fire and charged down the hallway to the kitchen, flinging the door open and slamming it shut behind him.
Mia had her back against the counter, riven with fear. Corben saw that she was clasping the file tightly across her chest. Her face lit up at the sight of him still in one piece and seemingly uninjured. She looked as if she had a mountain of questions for him, but now wasn’t the time for them and she knew it.
Corben stuffed the gun under his belt and grabbed hold of the large fridge. His face contorted and he grunted as he rattled it across the tiled floor, using it to block the kitchen door. He had it halfway across when bullets from the hallway tore through the door, either finding the back of the fridge or exploding against the back wall of the kitchen. Mia screamed as one of them hit the balcony door and punched a spiderweb of cracks through it. Corben yelled out to her, “Stay clear of the door,” and with a final grunt, he shoved the fridge into place. More shots came at them and pinged against it, but it held, shielded him and Mia from their onslaught.
The shooting paused, and heavy thuds came pounding the door from the hallway. The killers were trying to push it open, and the heavy fridge, though tough to budge, was giving way, inch by inch. Corben grabbed a chair and levered it between the edge of the fridge and a fat radiator, buying them some extra seconds, and without pausing for breath, he took the file from Mia and tucked it into the small of his back while shouting, “Come on.”
They dashed out onto the balcony. It was a small, narrow rectangle with clothes wires hanging across it lengthways. Corben knew from scoping it out that it backed up onto a mirror-image service balcony of the neighboring apartment. The two balconies were separated by a wall of thick glass blocks that went right up to the stuccoed parapet, which had a metal railing mounted on it.
He led Mia to the edge of the balcony. “Climb over,” he urged her, “I’ll give you a hand.”
She didn’t seem particularly thrilled by the prospect.
He darted a look back inside the kitchen. The fridge was teetering inwards with every loud shove of the door, the chair straining against the radiator. “Come on,” he insisted, “just climb over to the other side and don’t look down.” Advice that people in those situations always seemed to give, but that, of course, no one ever followed.
Not one to mess with tradition, Mia peered over the edge and glanced straight down. The courtyard at the rear of the building, a wasteland of crates and discarded building materials three floors below, seemed to drop even deeper.
Another jarring thud from inside convinced her.
She gritted her teeth and swung one leg over the parapet.
Chapter 22
Hugging the partition wall, Mia lifted herself and shifted her weight so that she was now sitting on the railing, with neither leg touching the floor.
Corben held her hand as she inched her way across the smooth metal railing, actually managing not to look down.
“That’s it, keep going,” Corben egged her on, moving with her as she slid farther across, slowly and carefully, her knuckles white as they gripped the railing underneath her.
A sudden, loud crash from the kitchen unsettled her — the chair snapping out of its tight hold. Mia lost her grip and slid backwards. She screamed as she let go of the railing and tried to grab the wall she was straddling, but the glass blocks were too smooth to hang on to.
Corben lunged outwards and caught her. He pulled her upright and gave her a final push, sending her onto the neighboring balcony, where she landed with a thud and out of breath.
He stole one last glance into the kitchen before climbing over the railing and clambering across. The balcony door facing him was mercifully open. As he joined Mia, they heard the fridge scraping its way furiously across the kitchen floor under the bull-like shoves of the two killers. Corben hurried Mia inside, and they raced through the small apartment. There was no sign of the woman they’d met, which was just as well. She must have been cowering in a bathroom or under a bed, which is where Corben hoped she’d stay until they were all well out of the building.